First Day on the Job
by whack sparrow
Summary: *SEASON 9 FINALE SPOILER* Dean is a demon. In hell, he is sent down to meet someone from his past and figures hell isn't as bad as he thought as a demon... T for graphic scene/implied torture.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, this is my first supernatural fic. I mean this to be a one-shot but I do want to write more so if anyone wants to ask me to write more I would be totally okay with that... hint hint!**

* * *

She was sprawled doll-like, quite raggedly, on a rusted rack. Her legs hung limply off the edge. The floor and the walls were stained a telltale brown-red, rivulets of the stuff dripping from the numerous wounds over her body. The mechanical smell of blood hung heavy in the room.

Dean frowned as he peered through into the crude room. She looked familiar, and yet how could she still be here? He was sure she would have broken long, long ago.

He felt a sudden, white-hot rage. She hadn't broken? She must have been in here for what, coming on 500 years? And he, the ever-stoic hunter who was supposedly the vessel for Archangel Michael, who had been deemed important enough to be dragged out of hell by Castiel? He had broken in a mere thirty years. It was pathetic, really.

All of a sudden he found he couldn't bear it. With a growl, he tore open the door and stormed inside.

In an instant, she was alert. "Oh, do leave me alone," she purred into the solid metal beneath her. She may as well have been lying on a king-sized bed with a memory-foam mattress. "I still haven't healed yet."

Disgusted, he could not find it in himself to make a snide reply as it became apparent to him that she really had been here for all this time. She was a hell veteran, he noted dully, who had officially been through more pain than he ever had. It put her on a pedestal above him, like a martyr, he felt. He wanted nothing more than to drag her off it.

"We both know the rules," she added with a sigh as she felt the continued presence. "My nerve endings are still frayed. I'm afraid I won't feel a thing right now, but you're welcome to come back later."

Yes, this was most definitely Bela Talbot tied down in front of him. Now he understood why Crowley had sent him down here.

"I think I'll stay," he voiced. Let himself smile at the sharp intake of breath she gave.

And yet, she still didn't react. "We did psychological torture yesterday," she mumbled. "Come on, please be a little more creative."

He sat down on a nearby chair, all-too-aware that he was probably something like the fiftieth demon to take that very seat. "Well, flattered as I am that they use me to get you all riled up," he drawled, "things are a little different this time." Yeah, very different.

She stiffened. This time he took no pleasure from the sight. "It's really you, isn't it," she observed. _  
_

"Afraid so."

That's when she propped herself up on her arms and turned around slightly, resting her head on her arm to regard him. She didn't seem surprised to see him, or maybe she just hid it well. She was naked, he noticed for the first time as he eyed her bare chest unabashedly, and it bothered him a little to see her so undignified, because this certainly wasn't how he liked to remember her whenever his mind drifted to her memory.

"Heard you got out."

He gave a tired smile. She had no idea.

"Also heard I was the first seal."

He flinched. Couldn't stop himself. Looked her in the eyes for the first time, saw only sympathy there and felt another wave of anger wash through him. She dared to feel sorry for him? After everything... _really_? He controlled himself, trying to hide his weakness. He was supposed to be stronger than this, if the freakin' Mark of Cain meant anything. "Yeah, sorry about that."

One of her eyebrows arched. "I'm sorry too."

He knew she knew what she was doing. He was certain she knew exactly how he was feeling right now. Surely she must know that all her sympathy would do now is make him feel worse? Evidently not. "You're not," he laughed humorlessly.

"You're right," she said blithely. "I'm not really capable of emotion, am I?" And she was teasing him.

Yeah? Well, he could tease right back. That was his specialty. "Nope. Heartless bitch through and through." He'd never believed it, never truly, because he knew it wasn't true, he'd always known there was something, but it had been so much easier to _pretend _to believe it. This they both knew.

They were both grinning now. A couple of the only non-sarcastic, non-sadistic smiles that had been seen in a torture chamber of hell for months.

"I don't suppose you came down here to rescue me," she teased at length. "And I'll admit I am curious."

It was obvious what she was asking. He looked away. "I died," he shrugged. Then he felt the familiar urge to lie, an as usual, gave in to it. "Guess I did some pretty heartless things and ended up back here." Tried to look nonchalant.

She saw right through it. Not because he was a bad liar, because they were both excellent liars, but because she knew there was nothing Dean Winchester would do that would get him sent back to hell again. She decided not to press the matter. "I'm sorry."

There it was again, he thought bitterly. The sympathy that he was convinced she was incapable of, that made him feel like she was his freakin' therapist or something.

"I got a question too," he began. Felt a little ashamed to ask, but then realized he was a demon; feeling regret in asking someone an insensitive question should really be the _least _of his issues.

She allowed herself to smile at his discomfort. Not because she liked seeing him in discomfort, but she liked seeing him conflicted in how he thought he was supposed to feel about her. "Well go on. I don't have all day." Another joke.

"Freakin'..." He scratched his head awkwardly. Suddenly he wasn't a demon with the Mark of Cain burnt into his forearm and the First Blade pressing against his torso through his shirt, he was just Dean asking a woman an inappropriate question to satisfy his curiosity. "Five hundred years, right?"

"More or less." She knew immediately what he was referring to.

"How did ... why are you not, you know." He looked at her eyes pointedly. "A demon by now?" Meaning, _how the fuck did you find it in you to not break for all this time, when I broke so easily?_

She gave him her catlike smile, but he could see it crease at the edges, the first sign she allowed herself to show him of the toll that five-hundred years in hell had taken on her. "You want the truth or a sarcastically cryptic answer?"

Well, obviously he wanted the _truth_, but that wasn't what he was going to get.

"I just didn't feel like breaking. I'm stubborn, aren't I?"

He grimaced. "That you are."

So they were both hiding things now. Big deal.

"Alastair's dead," he blurted out.

"Good."

"Sam killed him," Dean continued. It just felt good to talk. "You shoulda seen it. I was assigned as Alastair's torturer by a bunch of angels." It sounded crazy aloud.

"That's poetic," she commented. "Did you enjoy it?" Trust Bela to ask the important questions!

"Yes," he said automatically. "You know what that son of a bitch did to me and made me do."

She traced a hand absently over a scar on her belly that had yet to disappear, because it was a mark of the first Seal of the Apocalypse and never would heal. "I know."

He pretended not to notice. "It felt _damn _good, Bela."

She stayed silent, her way of imploring him to tell her more.

"There were a lot of different blades, there was salt and there was holy water," he said at length. "I picked the sharpest, not the biggest, just like he taught me. He laughed in my face."

A crease appeared on his brow. "He didn't find it so funny when I drenched the blade in holy water and covered it with salt."

"You're a genius," she said dryly.

"Tell me about it." He smiled. "He squealed so loud, Bela. Suddenly I wasn't afraid of him anymore. He's just like you and me. He can feel pain and he sure as hell don't like it."

"What a surprise."

"Then he told me you were the first seal. Called you a 'weeping bitch'. I don't remember anything after that. I must've lost it."

She held her silence.

"Sam tells me he managed to break free of the devil's trap somehow. Then he beat me senseless. Cas came to save me, and he beat the shit out of him too. In the end it was Sam who wasted him, with his freaky demon blood powers."

"Cas?"

"Angel who dragged me out. He's a character." Dean laughed.

Bela chewed her lip. "So Sam literally is the antichrist?"

"Pretty much." He pulled a face. "He drank demon blood, like a lot of it, all to take out Lilith."

At the mention of the female demon, Bela's face withdrew sharply before she could stop herself.

"Sorry," Dean said quickly. "She's dead too, by the way."

"Good." Quieter this time.

"She was the last seal, actually. Killing her brought about the rising of Lucifer."

Bela shot him a wry look. "Things really got screwed up while I was gone, huh?"

"You don't know the half of it." He shook his head. There was so much he suddenly wanted to tell her. So much he wanted to tell _anyone_, he reminded himself sharply. Still, that didn't help to quell the sudden urge he felt to drag her bodily off the rack and up, out of hell, slaughtering every demon in his way, damn the consequences.

Her hair was filthy and matted with blood. But she was still beautiful.

They stayed there in silence for a few minutes, savoring each others company.

Eyeing her shivering, naked body, he allowed his mind to blank out for a moment and gave in. Stripped off his jacket and threw it at her, not daring to do more than that.

There was a tense moment as neither of them moved, then she darted out a hand and snatched up the jacket. Draped it around her shoulders, wincing as it chafed the welts on her back, but relaxing a little into the physical and mental comfort it began to provide her. Comfort wasn't exactly a commodity in hell.

A rapping on the door behind him brought Dean back to the present. "Doc's here!"

Bela pushed hair out of her eyes and gave a quiet groan like she was being woken up early. She raised her voice a little. "C'mon, Annie, it's a fortnightly treatment, not daily..."_  
_

Annie, who turned out to be an old man in a hospital uniform, opened the door and wheeled in a trolley laden with all sorts of instruments and bottles. "Sorry," he grinned in a manner that made it clear he wasn't sorry in the least. "Not my orders."

He seemed to notice Dean for the first time. "And who's this? A visitor?"

Dean longed to wipe that asshole smirk off his face. "Something like that," he said cockily. One of the perks of having the Mark of Cain? Definitely being able to look a demon confidently in the face without a hint of fear.

Annie laughed. "Kidding, silly. I know who you are."

"You do?"

The 'doctor' gave a mock salute. "All hail Crowley, blah blah blah. Apparently, I'm getting a tea break. Job's on you, buster."

And he strolled out the door whistling merrily. Dean gritted his teeth as he usually did when he didn't understand what was going on, forcing himself to ignore Bela's questioning stare.

Dean leaned over and slammed the door. "Who was that?"

Bela sat up and swung her legs over the side of the rack. "Medic," she shrugged.

He eyed her dubiously. "Medic," he repeated._  
_

She reached gingerly with a practiced air for a beaker brimming with thick black liquid from the cart and held it in the air up to her face. It was more cream than liquid, Dean noticed. "Don't tell me you forgot."

Dean shifted awkwardly. "I may have repressed some of my memories."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, _as you know, _the healing process is important in Hell. This is liniment." A shrug. She reached for a large, flat-bladed knife from the cart and handed it to Dean with the handle facing him.

He looked at her dumbly. "What?"

"Annie said you're taking over today."

His eyes widened. "_What? _But you said you're still healing..." he said lamely. _Besides,_ he wanted to add, _Alastair's dead and you're crazy if you think I'm going to do this again..._

She scooted over on the rack and grabbed his hand, wrapping it around the handle. "No, not that, you moron. You just have to spread the salve on my wounds. Think of it like a butter knife," she finished sweetly.

He stared down at the knife. "I think I'll pass."

"Like hell you will," she replied smoothly. "Don't tell me you hate me so much you want to leave me to suffer."

He narrowed his eyes. "This is not about that. Besides, you know this just restarts the whole cycle again. It's not exactly a happy healing spell."

"I don't care. Do you want to get in trouble with Crowley?"

He started. "How do you -"

Bela clicked her tongue impatiently. "He's the King of Hell, Dean, surely even you must know that."

"Oh," he said stupidly. "Right, yeah." _Phew. _"Okay, then."

Blindly, he dipped the knife in the beaker. Used it like a scoop to gather as much liniment as he could on it (might as well get this over with, right?). Dutifully, Bela stripped of the jacket and lay down on her front on the rack, head hung over the edge like she was awaiting a massage.

Dean cursed as a chunk of the salve fell to the floor in a sloppy mess. "You'd think a spoon would be better suited," he muttered under his breath.

"No spoons in hell," came Bela's muffled reply. "Only knives."

He hesitated as he brought the knife close to one of the wounds on her back. The skin felt rough around his fingers. He tried to ignore how she shivered under his touch and how familiar this felt to that day all those years ago when he'd been in the same position with Alastair's watchful eye behind him. Swallowed a lump in his throat and closed his eyes momentarily to dispel the memory.

He steeled himself and touched knife to skin. He definitely wasn't prepared for the strained scream that slipped involuntarily out of Bela's mouth as it happened.

"Bela," he barked before he could stop himself, snatching the knife away from her back, yet still she let out something between a whimper and a moan that he never wanted to hear from her mouth. "What the..."

She took several breaths to calm herself down, and when her breathing had slowed, she spoke. "It's fine, Dean. The liniment hurts. It's another one of the ironic punishments down here. They added that after you left. Crowley's idea."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. He eyed the salve in the beaker with disgust. This was Crowley's idea of 'welcome to demonhood'? "Son of a bitch."

"Relax," Bela said as if she was the one administering the liniment. "And hurry up," she added with a shiver.

Dean imagined Crowley watching on them right now, sipping something expensive and alcoholic. Crowley was a sucker for drama. The bastard would love this.

Gritting his teeth, Dean worked fast, slathering gently. To her credit, Bela got used to the pain fast. A few minutes in, she was silent apart from the odd gasp whenever the liniment was applied somewhere anew. It became eerily similar to a massage as Bela found herself beginning to relax. It didn't hurt nearly as much when Dean did it.

She caught herself wishing this wouldn't end, and berated herself. This was hell. Anything good would end as soon as it possibly could. But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy this respite while it lasted. Even if it would be her undoing, because the next time she would be tortured, it was going to hurt so much more.

Dean felt he should be hating every moment of this. It should have been insanely awkward, but it wasn't. Suddenly all the issues between Bela and he seemed to melt away as his fingers trailed over her skin. He could pretend he'd never sliced that blade into said skin, never broken after thirty years and never started the apocalypse. This didn't feel so much like hell at all...

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**Please review! And fave if you liked it.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well you guys seemed to like the first chapter so i thought might as well continue. I love writing Dean/Bela interaction. This wont be a really long fic but I would love to write a longer fic separately after this is done. **

**Thanks for the support. Review + fav! :)**

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Crowley came down to see them himself a couple of hours later. Invited himself in, and everything.

"You're a hard worker," he commented as he stepped into the room. "I expected you to complain, or throw a hissy fit."

Dean snatched his hand from where it had been stroking a particularly vicious-looking welt on Bela's lower back, where her spine arched inwards, thinking how much like sandpaper it felt. He straightened and sat back in his chair. "Crowley," he muttered. "Good to see you."

"You too, dear," Crowley remarked. "I just thought I'd interrupt - we need to have a little chat." He motioned outside. "In private."

"I'll say," Dean snorted as he stood up and took his jacket off the rack, slipping it on. Some of Bela's blood had seeped into it. _Great, _he thought as he felt the dampness against his chest.

Bela heard none of this, because she was asleep for the first time in a good few years without having passed out from pain. As a result, her brow was not creased tightly and her mouth was not stretched in a grimace. It's the little things.

Crowley ushered Dean out into the corridor and shut the chamber entrance. "Walk with me."

Dean resisted the urge to say something sarcastic and ... well, just plain _mean, _and followed the King of Hell. It wasn't exactly a promenade, but Dean never liked walks much anyway. He was more of a road trip kinda guy.

"I know it isn't the Champs-Élysées," Crowley remarked as they passed a pit of vicious-looking spikes underneath an archway that didn't look like it belong at all, "but you've got to admit. My renovations give the place a bit of a shine."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Chomp-what?"

The demon rolled his eyes. "Aren't you the cultured one."

Dean didn't dignify that with a response.

"I like to think Hell has flourished under my watchful eye," Crowley continued with a faint smile. "Abaddon, she was all ... blood, guts and organs over here, prison cells over there, etcetera... she missed the grandeur that I've achieved." He indicated a smoldering building to prove his point. "The burn house, for example. I don't suppose you remember what it was like before?"

"Nope," Dean replied noncommittally. He didn't, and didn't really want to.

"Crude," came the answer. "At least now it looks half decent. Architecture gives this place a real quality." He took one last look at the burning building, seeming to relish the screams that could be heard from inside, then turned to Dean. "Pardon all the small talk, though. We have matters to discuss."

"Yeah?" Dean allowed his eyes to flash to the black that their color was now. "Tell me about it."

"You turning into a demon," Crowley began smoothly, all businesslike, "was not on my agenda, believe it or not."

"Yeah, well I don't believe it. This has gotta be some kind of joke to you, me turning into one of the things I hate the most."

"While the irony is amusing ... this state of affairs serves me no advantage," Crowley maintained. "I was Johnny Crossroads before I ascended to King of Hell, and I'm still all about simple strategy. I didn't get you the Mark of Cain for your benefit, I instigated it because I needed Abaddon dead. She was a threat," he said mildly.

"You break my heart when you put it like that," Dean said sarcastically.

"With you as a demon, don't you think I might be a little vulnerable?" Crowley said it simply, because it was simple and to be honest, he couldn't stand waiting for Dean to figure it out himself - that would take _ages. _"You have the First Blade, after all, and the mark - if you wanted, Winchester, you could take me out and rule Hell all by your lonesome." He smiled knowingly. "In fact, I'd be practically bending over backwards."

Dean watched him suspiciously. "Even if I did want to take over this shithole," he put eloquently, "why would you even tell me this? I'm already gone, aren't I? My eyes are black."

"Ah," Crowley said smugly. "That's where it gets juicy and complicated."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you are a special snowflake. You're a unique case."

Dean balked and glared. "While that makes me feel all tingly inside... what? Quit stalling and spit it out."

"Isn't it obvious? How do you feel, Dean?" Crowley gave him his best 'soul-searching' look. "Feeling particularly demonic? Any urges to torture lately?"

Dean pondered this. "Not really."

"You also happen to retain compassion," the King of Hell continued. "And even tenderness, as I astutely observed with all the sweet stroking. That, I have to admit, is something I doubt you even showed when you were human." He grinned. "Must be something special about the gal."

Dean gritted his teeth. "It's rude to spy on people."

"You're in my house," Crowley shrugged. "Anyway, my point is, you still have your humanity. So no need to pull a moose and sob with despair; there may be hope for you yet."

Dean found that hard to believe. "And I suppose you're going to help prevent me becoming a demon? Out of the goodness of your heart?"

It was Crowley's turn to snort. "Of course not, don't be ridiculous. You being a demon isn't on my wishlist, remember?" He eyed Dean with disdain. "You really ought to get a specialist to examine your short-term memory skills."

"Screw you."

"Sorry, I'm taken and happy." The demon gestured to the doorway in front of him - somehow, they had ended up back at Bela's torture chamber. "Home sweet home."

"Was that a circular walk?" Dean scratched his head.

"I like to think so. It certainly wasn't a very long one. Anyway, I'm going to scram before you decide to ask me why Bela Talbot's torture dungeon is your new home." He shot Dean a smarmy wink that reminded him worryingly of Gabriel. "Try and be a good guest." And he vanished.

"Son of a bitch!"

* * *

It hit Bela like a ton of bricks. One minute she was at (relative) peace, in that blissful absence of pain during which her skin knotted itself together and healed with the salve's help, the strange tingling sensation enveloping her being. The next, she shot up, breathing hard as the pieces of the puzzle slotted themselves into place.

Dean turning up was the first tip-off. Why was he even down here if there wasn't something seriously wrong?

She'd been stupid. It was only all-too obvious now what was going on. With Alastair dead, there was need for a new chief torturer, and after what she had experienced with Dean, he would step-up to the job. Now she understood why he had avoided eye contact and, furthermore, what he was doing in Hell in the _first place - _Dean Winchester was a demon.

And he had come to be her new torturer.

She bit her lip. He was in with Crowley, too, must be, considering Annie's behavior, so he was a high-ranking demon too. This certainly wasn't what she expected. Not after five hundred years. Apparently getting her to break was important?

_God, _and she'd let him clean her wounds, not that she'd had a choice, but he must have laughed his ass off.

He wasn't here right now. Presumably he had left when she fell asleep.

What did it matter though? She was in Hell. She didn't exactly have the means to fight back or escape, or negotiate, the latter being her usual method of getting out of sticky situations. Here, she was at his mercy. For the thousandth time, she regretted everything she had ever done in her life because it had led her right to this moment.

She was used to the routine by now, and that in a way was what made it bearable. Even constant agony bores the mind after a while, and if you're stuck down long enough, they run out of fresh ideas and it becomes monotonous. But with Dean? She wasn't even sure if he needed instruments to torture her. That man was one of the few (few as in, countable on fingers) people in her life that she met more than once without a business transaction in mind since that fateful day when she was fourteen years old. His voice had spoken the last human words she'd ever heard - damning as they were.

The torture had probably already began. The confiding earlier had probably been an act. He'd likely wake her up later by binding her in rough chains and whipping her until he could feel blood beneath his feet, all the while talking in that low, comforting voice of his to remind her who it was that was hurting her.

Well, she knew now. Now she would be prepared. If Dean wanted to break her, she wasn't going to go easy.

"Son of a bitch!"

Her train of thought was interrupted by that very man entering her chamber. Her paranoid thoughts faded away for a second as she saw him walk in looking irritated, confused and - well, _Dean-_like, and she almost laughed despite herself.

Before he could lull her into a false sense of security, she exhaled heavily. "Christo," she whispered at the end of the breath.

A chill ran down her spine as she saw Dean flinch as if he'd been bitten by a bug. _His eyes_, she reminded hereself, and sure enough, the green pools were now a solid black._  
_

Dean, observant fellow that he was, didn't notice a thing and sat down like he owned the damn place. Which he probably did if he was royalty to Crowley... bollocks!

"Hm?"

Oh, she'd said that last bit aloud. "Bollocks, I said, Dean."

He made no comment, but raised an eyebrow. She noticed he was still avoiding eye contact. Well, she would play along too.

They settled into a silence so full of tension you could have cut it with a knife, and there were plenty of knives available in hell. All that could be heard was ...

"Breathe louder, Dean, really," she snapped. Couldn't resist.

He blinked. "Sorry. Jeez." Ran his green eyes which she knew were actually black over the room, looked at everything but her. How gentlemanly of the demon to respect her privacy all of a sudden!

Dean was still shifting edgily, wondering for the umpteenth time in his life what he'd done this time to make a woman upset. God, he looked so boyish. So easy for her to forget what he was.

"I guess I pissed you off, huh?" He spoke at last, twiddling his thumbs like a goddamn idiot.

She merely gave an affirmative grunt in reply. Surely Dean wasn't this smart. When Dean acted stupid, he usually wasn't acting.

"O-kay," he conceded sheepishly. A minute later, the cogs fit together in his mind - about time, too! She could almost see the light bulb flash above his head. "Oh," he muttered. "You know."

She nodded curtly, just glad the game seemed to be up by now. Any minute now, he was going to drop the act and the pain would begin. Any minute now and his face would curl into a mocking smile, which was fine because she'd seen it coming.

Dean shrugged. He'd known the truth would come out sometime. He wasn't sure how to explain it though, so he didn't bother trying to elaborate. He'd wait for her to cool off, then think of something.

Any minute now...

Dean cleared his throat in a manner he probably thought was subtle.

Any minute...

Any-

"Oh, for GOD's sake, Dean, just hurry up!" She spluttered out loud, unable to stand the waiting any longer. She almost wanted to offer him the torture instruments so she could just get it over with and start dealing with it. The waiting was worse.

He seemed surprised by the outburst - as if he hadn't noticed the mounting tension - pfft! "Huh?"

"_Huh?_" She mocked. "Dean, darling, if this is your master plan to break me it's not working very well. I suggest you get started with the fancy stuff because really, I'm just not in the mood for foreplay. Frankly it's a waste of your own time. You may as well skip Act I, because it's not all that effective." She made to get up without missing a beat. "In fact, why don't I help you out? I'll fetch the cat o' nine tails, I'm sure it's locked up in the back somewhere." She stumbled to her feet unsteadily, but proudly, because she was stepping right into the position of power. 1-0 to Bela Talbot!

Dean's face split into an uneasy smile, and she was suddenly doubtful he'd heard anything besides 'foreplay' and 'cat o' nine tails'. "Look, I don't know what's gotten into you, but I don't think that would be a very sm-"

"No, Dean," she growled, cutting him off sharply. "No. Drop the act. Drop the _fucking _act and just get it over with." She was beginning to get seriously angry. This was the problem with demons - you could never be quite sure whether they were telling the truth or playing you like a £200,000 antique German violin. And she'd always considered _herself _a master of deception, so it was insulting, really.

His smile vanished. "Drop the what?" She glimpsed an imaginary glint in his eye, one that she thought said '_I know you know, but who's going to let on first?' _and made her grind her teeth.

"Christo," she snarled, trying to get him riled up, feeling a degree of satisfaction as his eyes bled into their deep black and he flinched involuntarily. "Christo, christo, christo." She knew invoking God's name in Hell was bound to attract unwanted attention, but fuck, she didn't care.

He glared at her. With black eyes, it was eerily different to Dean's usual glower. "Hey, stop that. I know I look like a demon, but damn, woman, it's not what you think!"

For a hot minute, they stayed like that, smoldering furiously at each other. It occurred to them both at the same time that this was always how they seemed to end up (except usually they had guns). Perhaps that was what broke the tension?

Abruptly, the vein in Bela's forehead stopped pulsing so violently. Fury gave way a little to sarcasm. "Oh, tell me all about it, yeah? You just happen to have black eyes, mmhm, and you're came here to pay a visit to little old me out of the goodness of your heart?" Her body language was goading. Subconsciously, she knew she was trying to egg him into losing his cool and break the façade which she was now not quite as sure that he was holding up.

He threw up his hands defensively. "Oh, forgive _me _for not having a clue what's going down."

"Not much has changed then, yeah?"

And he looked so _injured_ all of a sudden that she had to bite her lip to suppress a smile.

He sensed the mood shift into banter territory and his lip twitched. "Speak for yourself, Little Miss Kink. If I'd known how eager you are around whips I would _never _have burnt that rabbit's foot."

She scoffed. "Please. You would've burnt your own foot for poor Sammy. It's unhealthy, and kind of pathetic, really."

"Really, though, Bela," he said earnestly after a scathing look, steering the argument back into seriousness. "I know what you're probably thinking, and it isn't true."

"Oh really?" she shot back contemptuously. "Because then you'd know why I don't believe you."

Dean paused. "Well, ya got me there."

Bela sat back down and heaved a sigh. The metal rack had gone cold against her bare skin.

"You might as well humor me," he decided at length. "Let me explain?"

Her walls were down now. She threw him a look and shrugged as if she didn't care. "Don't suppose it matters."

"Right." He moved and she jumped, despite herself, but he was only reaching for his own sleeve. He rolled up the jacket and t-shirt underneath, revealing a peculiar tattoo on his arm - well, she assumed it was a tattoo; it looked more like a brand. He gave her a cheeky grin. "Cliff notes version or long-winded tale?"

She swung her legs onto the rack and hugged her knees. Her calves were pockmarked with little scars and deeper gashes. "Don't care."

"Well," he began. "Me and Sam messed up and accidentally let out a Knight of Hell from the past, and Crowley threw a hissy fit and begged us to stop her."

"Abaddon?" Bela asked.

"Yep." He popped the 'p'. "I'm guessing they keep you updated?"

"I read the paper." She smiled her sideways smile.

"Well... yeah. There's only one thing that can kill a Knight of Hell and it's called the First Blade. It belonged to this demon called Cain -"

"Cain, as in, Cain and Abel?"

He nodded. "So, we went to his place and long story short, I had to gank a bunch of demons and he gave me this." Here, he ran a finger along the lines of the brand on his arm pointedly. "It's called the Mark of Cain."

Bela paled. "That was a bad idea, Dean."

"You're telling me?" He shook his head. "This thing is crazy. I got this urge to kill stuff and I didn't want to let go of the Blade. But whatever, right? I dealt with it."

"Yeah, _then_ I got ganked by some punk-ass angel scribe - Megatron, or something - he's a real dick. I woke up with black eyes." He shrugged. "Crowley tells me I'm not fully turned yet."

She studied him. "You and Crowley are real buddy-buddy now, aren't you?"

"He's not so bad," Dean admitted. "Compared to the others, anyway. I'd gank the sucker but he keeps the other demons in line."

"Well," she contemplated. "It's a nice story."

"Story?"

"Yeah. But Dean, I'm afraid I can't give you the satisfaction. I'm not a nut easily cracked."

He sighed and kneaded his brow. "What do I have to do to get you to believe me? Bela, I got no idea why I'm down here. I swear, all I wanna do is get back to my human self and knock back a couple of shower beers." He smiled wistfully, then pulled a face. "Or not even that? I'm dead. Maybe I'm just done with it all now. There ain't nothing much left up there anymore."

"Pretty much everyone's dead. All I got to live for is Sammy, and fuck, I should have let him start doing his own thing years ago. The angels fell from heaven. All I wanted to do was shut the gates of hell and rest in peace and I'm tired of fighting. Now I've got this demon shit to worry about?" He shook his head. "I can't catch a break."

She raised her eyebrow at his sullen demeanor. "Well, someone's wallowing in self-pity."

"Great, I feel much better."

"Well," she muttered, "you're much too whiny to be a demon, and besides, if you _were _my torturer, this would happen to be the most amateur session I've had the fortune to experience, so I might as well get on the same page."

"What about you?" He inquired. "This can't be an everyday thing for you either."

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "And I don't like it."

He grinned. "Come on, I'm not that bad."

She huffed. "That's not it. But fresh torture is always more difficult after things like this that give me -"

She cut herself off abruptly.

"Give you what?"

"False hope," she finished softly. "It's been centuries, but when I saw you, I still got the tiniest burst of hope in my mind. I couldn't help myself. Now it's only growing," she continued bitterly, "so in the end when you go and it's all over and done with, the torture is going to be harder than before." She frowned at how open and honest she was being - but she figured it she got a free pass after his sob story. Didn't think twice about the fact that she needed an excuse like that to share her feelings.

Dean watched her in quiet wonder, feeling that she didn't deserve this. Not an _eternity_. Maybe a few years at most, but he felt an aching in his heart when he thought of what stretched ahead of Bela in her future - that she had _nothing _to ever look forward to again, nothing to expect except constant pain. Once again, he was amazed at how she hadn't caved in. Not everyone in Hell was offered the coward's way out - Alastair had called it a special 'privilege', hinting that to refuse would be a waste.

If he'd thought about this a bit further, he might have touched on the reason he was down here with her right now. It was staring him right in the face, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for all the support guys, I really appreciate it! This is by far the story I've had the most fun writing. I think with Dean and Bela it just never gets boring.**

* * *

"You want to know something?"

Bela was hunched over on the floor, using a scalpel to scrape dried blood off her toenails where it had congealed in ugly black lumps. She didn't even look up. "Not particularly."

Dean folded his arms and tore his eyes away from the curve of her spine. Rested them instead on the rocky wall. "I'm having a moment, Bela. It doesn't happen often."

"Do I look like the sharing and caring type to you?"

"No," he admitted. "But I'm sharing anyway."

Okay, she was a little curious.

"If you must," she replied with a theatrical sigh. Kept scraping.

"I thought the next time I saw you again," he began, then paused. "Well, not that I willingly thought of that happening... it was more of a recurring nightmare I had." He grinned to himself. Probably thought he was bloody hilarious. "I figured you'd go dark side for _sure. _Honestly?" He shook his head. "I was expecting Demon Bela to rise up out of Hell and kick my ass years ago."_  
_

She tilted her head and looked up slightly to try and catch his expression, but it was too dark to gauge properly. Why was she even surprised that he thought so little of her? Stupid.

"Lord knows I had it coming," he muttered so quietly that she might have imagined it.

Bela stopped scraping. "Wouldn't that have been easy."

His gaze snapped back to her. "What do you mean?"

She merely snorted in reply.

Dean shrugged. "Whatever."

She was suddenly irritated that he hadn't pressed further. He really was clueless. She gave another snort.

Still nothing from Mr. Winchester.

Another, louder snort.

He frowned. "You want me to get you a tissue, or som-"

"What I _mean," _Bela enunciated, "and no offence, Dean - well, maybe a little offence - but what I mean is you're a bit of a coward."

"Excuse me?" He stared at her incredulously.

"What, hearing going already? Maybe it's just a bit of wax build-up. Or maybe ectoplasm?" She gave him a condescending smile, which was usually her go-to expression with Dean.

"Bela," he warned - actually _warned_! Only he was dumb enough to try threatening tone when she was already in Hell.

"Bela," she mimicked in an exaggeratedly low voice. She hadn't meant the coward thing at first, but now she was feeling an intense animosity towards the man who had, after all, left her to die and then tortured her himself in Hell and then had the _audacity_ to intrude on her _now_, after all this time! - "Dean, you're such a fan of the easy way out. Doesn't it strike you as strange that you would rather fight a demon than attempt to reconcile with someone you've wronged?"

He'd already cooked up a reply before her words registered properly. "_I've _wronged?" Dean raised his eyebrows as far as they would go. "Mighty words coming from you, Bela," he remarked nastily, and suddenly he was feeling better because once again he was in a position where he could shrug off the guilt and blame and replace it with some good old-fashioned righteous anger. "Ha! After the things you did in your life, it's a wonder you even needed a demon deal to end up here in the first place."

"Yeah," she snapped. "Because you know _so much_ about my life."

"I think I know enough," he shot straight back.

"That's your problem," she snarled and stood up before she could stop herself. "You wish everything was black and white, Dean, so you can _always _be the good guy who does everything right and is misunderstood in anything remotely wrong he decides to do - and me, I'm the devil! I do everything I do because I'm selfish, hateful and an evil bitch."

Shocked by her outburst, he struggled to find something equally cruel to shout back at her and drew a blank.

Bela continued animatedly. There was no stopping her now. "And you know what?"

"Fuck you, Dean, because if you want to believe everyone else who happens to get in your way is inhuman and a monster, then don't complain when everything doesn't fall right into place. If you want to invite me into your pretense then you might as well paint my eyes black first."

Dean gave her a dirty look. "Yeah, this is all my fault, Bela. Not like you sold your soul, your parents' lives and God knows what else for a little extra cash. Not like you sold the freakin' Colt, which was funnily enough the only thing that stood a chance of helping you, to try and save your own skin and damned _me _too in the process!"

"You were damned the moment you made that deal for your brother's life."

He balked. "How the - how did you know why I made the deal?"

She gave him a superior smile. "Sam took the liberty of calling after the incident with Gordon. He wanted to know if there was a way out of a crossroads deal and - well, the _rest_ was obvious." She tossed her head contemptuously. "You didn't make that deal for him, Dean, you made it for yourself and don't bother trying to pretend otherwise. You would rather sell your soul than deal with even the slightest amount of guilt. _That's_ what it boils down to."

She took a breath, then sat back down on the rack, facing away from him. "And you tell me _I'm _damaged."

He stared daggers into her back, which she ignored because she'd endured years of real daggers in that very back, although this seemed to hurt more... but _whatever. _Too long had Dean looked down upon her from his high horse. Who did he thing he was kidding? He belonged right where she was, writhing in the dirt just like the rest of them.

They waited in angry silence.

Dean's thoughts were a haze, which was actually quite common. He knew his eyes were jet-black - he'd felt them flare during the argument. Abruptly he rubbed them, as if to rub out the blackness. He could feel something seething inside him and instantly he knew that was his inner demon - quite literally.

The scalpel dropped from his hands as he did so with a clatter. He hadn't even noticed he'd snatched it up - it had felt like another finger, he realized with a pang of disgust. What was happening to him?

Bela didn't flinch at the sound, but she could feel, despite herself, her anger steaming away with each breath. She was suddenly struck with a loneliness unlike any that she'd felt in her entire life. The apology tumbled out of her lips unbidden. "I'm sorry, Dean."

He seemed just as surprised as her at this revelation.

"Didn't mean it," she said tentatively, then her lips twitched slightly - "not _all _of it."

When he didn't reply, she felt a lump rise to her throat and she looked down as she continued, grateful for the hair that tumbled down and framed her face which she suspected was going to betray emotions that Bela Talbot adamantly refused to show. "It's - it's been five hundred years, Dean, I just-"

"I get it," he said quietly. To her it was almost soothing. "I'm sorry too."

Then, slowly, "I guess I shouldn't pretend I know you, Bela. Even if it makes it easier. That was my mistake," he affirmed.

She interrupted him. "I get why you do it, though. I do. It's the job."

"The job," Dean repeated with a humorless laugh. The color returned to his eyes. "Yeah. But Bela..." he shook his head and looked at her. "About you? I only know what you've told me."

"They were lovely people," she recalled in a whisper, still facing away from him, determined not to let him see her face.

"Uh-huh. Well, Bela, I kinda get the feeling you're not telling me something." There was a hint of mirth in his voice. Just a tiny little hint. It deflated the tension like a pin in a balloon.

"Compulsive liar, remember?" She smiled to herself. Her heart was thumping in her chest. She would never tell. She would never ...

"Tell me?"

"Not a chance," she snapped.

Her voice sounded so grumpy that Dean found himself chuckling.

She shook her head. "Unbelievable. Trust you to laugh in a serious conversation." She turned to give him a murderous look, but her lips betrayed her and curved upwards ever-so-slightly at the edges as she witnessed his shoulders shake.

She fought desperately to keep them straight. Tried to burn a hole in his skull with her eyes. Maybe that would teach him a lesson.

"C'mon," he grinned. "Smiling can't be _that _bad. You gotta try it sometime. Might as well..." he flicked his brows up and down in his infamous 'eyebrow wink' that he knew women couldn't resist (in his experience).

She almost won the battle of wills. _Almost._

"There we go," he said triumphantly as the right side of her mouth shot up like a snake. "Knew you had it in you!"

"Sorry," she quipped to regain her dignity. "It's just so ridiculous when you flick your eyebrows up like that..."

He gave her a _ha-ha _look.

Her smile broadened. And now that she'd started... it was difficult to stop.

* * *

He slipped out later when she was asleep. As a demon, Dean now didn't feel the need to sleep, so he figured she wouldn't mind anyway. Well, she _would _mind if she knew what he was planning to do, but tough - you snooze, you loose.

When he was sure he was out of eyeshot, earshot and sixth-sense-_someone-is-doing-something-I-disapprove-of-_shot, he stopped. He'd arrived at some sort of rocky outcrop. The land (under-land?) was uneven and inclined upwards. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn this was like a mountain. It felt kind of familiar, which was strange, because Dean had never set foot on a mountain in his life.

He shrugged. Probably better not to think about who's little corner of Hell this was and why gentle slopes terrified them so much.

"Crowley," he whispered. Then, feeling foolish for whispering. he cleared his throat. "Crowley!"

Nothing. Maybe he needed a ritual? Usually summoning a demon needed a ritual, but he'd assumed Crowley would be able to hear him, being the King of Hell and all. He was struck with a grim sense of deja vu. How many times had he called to Castiel in a similar fashion? Now he was praying to demons.

He waited another minute, then called one last time. This had been a stupid idea anyway...

Just as he turned to leave in a huff, guess who materialized in front of his nose?

"Speak of the devil," Crowley quoted good-naturedly, "and he shall appear. Although sometimes he is late."

Dean eyed Crowley's fluffy slippers and nightcap. "Did I interrupt something, big guy?"

"Yes, actually. Funny that you ask - I had the strangest dream. I was John Grant from _Wake in Fright _and had this funny urge to drink copious amounts of bad liquor. It really was unsettling."

Dean stared. "Uh-huh. You gonna finish that little story?" Then, as an afterthought. "Man, that movie made me _so _thirsty..."

"Well, Dean," Crowley said impatiently. "It's late so let's make this quick, alright? What can I do for you?"

Dean's face turned serious. "Bela's story. I want to know it."

Crowley's face split into a knowing smile that Dean was honestly sick of seeing. "She didn't tell you?"

"Nope."

"What were you doing all that time then?" He shook his head. "Never mind, I think I know. I'll have to send some clothes down there sometime. Can't have you distracted all the time..."

Dean frowned. "What? No! She just won't tell me and since there isn't much else to do anyway, you might as well lay it out." Then as another afterthought, "but yeah, you should send down some clothes." He was only a man after all, and he was sure that ninety percent of the bad decisions he made in his life all began with him facing a naked woman.

Crowley shrugged. "I'll see what I can do. As for the story... Dean, I can't help you there. It just isn't my story to tell."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Another noncommittal shrug... would it hurt Crowley to take something seriously for once? Probably. "Relax, squirrel. I just think this would be something better experienced in real-time. Some things are just better on the big screen."

Dean folded his arms. "You want me watch her life story on a TV? Can you even do that?"

Crowley snorted. "No. Well, that _is _a good idea. Entertainment is a little bit one-sided down here - we could sure use a creative idea like that." He pulled out a smartphone and wrote a note down on it, holding up his finger as if to say _one moment, this is very important_. "Dean, what usually happens when you have to learn something important?"

"I torture it out of someone?" Dean guessed. That sounded like the right answer down here.

The Kind of Hell wagged his finger at him. "No, you bloodthirsty mongrel, you. The answer is, of course, you go back in time and experience it yourself." He smiled, looking pleased with himself.

Dean couldn't help pulling a face. "Of fucking course." He'd honestly had enough of trippy time travel in his lifetime. Then he frowned. "Well I'm pretty sure only angels can pull that off, and Crowley honey, you don't even cut it close."

Crowley took the compliment with a gracious nod. "Ah. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe we have one of those at our disposal. What was his name... Casper?"

Dean's face fell. "Does he-"

"He knows, don't worry. I took care of that a while ago. In fact," Crowley continued with an air of superiority, "he knows more about your predicament than you do yourself - he'd be more than willing to help."

"Great." Dean sighed and shook his head. "Why is this shit so important anyway? You should be able to just tell me. I like my movies but this ain't exactly the time and place."

"I won't bore you with the details, but believe me Dean, this shit is important." His voice was matter-of-fact as ever, but something about it felt sincere for once. Probably because this was benefiting Crowley in the long run somehow. "I'll let Castiel debrief you tomorrow. Night!"

And he vanished just like that.

Dean cursed. He should really have been used to a lack of straight answers by now, but damn if it wasn't irritating!

As he trudged back towards 'home', he realized what his surroundings reminded him of. "Son of a bitch," he breathed. "Crowley built a freakin' replica of Mount Doom."

* * *

**Leave a review? :) **

**Next chapter: Dean goes back in time and overseas!**


	4. Chapter 4

Bela awoke from her second painless sleep in five hundred years to the tell-tale echoing of her breath in the chamber that told her she was alone. _So this is it_, she thought to herself. Dean was gone now, probably taken somewhere by Crowley, and the interlude was up. Maybe he'd be back ... but she doubted it. Besides, torture would begin again soon. She sighed heavily, feeling the heaviness in her chest rising and rising until she thought it was sure to burst out of her - but instead, it rose through her throat and took up residence there.

Her eyes smarted despite herself. Bela wasn't typically a crier, but in Hell anything went and certainly those first few years she had cried like a baby. And tears of physical pain came often still, but they were nothing significant and caused her no real extra discomfort.

But this, this was different. She really felt like she'd lost something here, which was a first in Hell because the one thing she thought she could count on was having nothing left to lose. In a way it felt worse. These tears would hurt for real.

So she squeezed her eyelids shut fiercely and bowed her head until the moisture no longer threatened to spill out, then opened them and let her vision adjust. The most important thing now was getting back into the routine. Once she was in the routine, once she'd put all this Dean business behind her, she would be able to handle anything.

_DING DING DING_!

Torture sessions were always started with the ringing of a crude bell, which also served as a wake-up call of sorts. It reminded Bela of ding-dong at the end of school back in England, the sound that signaled her return to her loveless home for the rest of the day. In Hell, they never missed a thing, did they? Quaint.

Bela got shakily to her feet, head still bowed. Looked inside herself and chased down that last bit of hope that perhaps she was to be exempted, that maybe Dean had given her temporary amnesty due to his stature, or - she thought wildly - maybe he'd just slipped out for breakfast, and he would be back now. She took that hope firmly beneath her fingers, wriggling desperately to be free, and crushed it. That was how you survived in Hell.

Then she raised her head, forgot about Dean and waited for today's demon to come.

* * *

Castiel approached Dean solemnly, his eyes averted slightly - and Dean knew he was struggling not to look at his true demonic face.

They were still in Hell - Dean wasn't permitted to leave - but Castiel had entered and now they stood at the Mount Doom replica beside each other. It did feel kind of badass, until he remembered what he was actually about to do.

The silence needed to be broken, so Dean broke it. "So... hey again, Cas." Tried to give an uneasy smile. He just wasn't sure how Castiel would see him now.

Castiel was impassive as ever. "Hello Dean."

Well, how bad could it be?

"So, do you know what's goin' on here?" Dean eyed the trench-coated angel awkwardly. "Because I would be lying if I said I was sure."

"It is imperative that you resist your demonic urges, Dean," Cas said plainly. It was fact. He looked at Dean's face for the first time and didn't flinch. "Sam and I cannot allow you to become one of them."

"I'm with you on that," Dean nodded. "You gotta tell me how though. I don't want this anymore than you do."

"Dean..." Cas looked down. "Resisting demonic urges has always been difficult in Hell. It will be more difficult to you since you have already succumbed once before."

Dean flinched.

"However..." he continued. "One soul in Hell has continued to repel the demonic temptation and instead endure torture for day after day, month after month..." He closed his eyes as if the pain physically hurt him as well. "Century after century."

Understanding dawned on Dean like the morning light - except this revelation was more like dusk. "So... Bela?"

Castiel nodded slowly. "Abigail Richards is her true name. You know her by Bela Talbot, the first woman you tortured while in perdition."

Dean shook his head angrily. "Figures. Just fucking figures."

Then, "So what? Bela has to stuff to teach me or something?"

"Bela will purify your soul," Castiel said simply. Dean almost wanted to laugh out loud - Bela? Purifying something? Even she would find that idea laughable. "Yes. But before that, you need to know her story. You need to understand Bela Talbot to be able to let her purge you. To understand her, you need to know the truth about her life. Those are your answers."

Dean swallowed thickly. Definitely not the answers he'd expected. In fact, he doubted them very much, but he'd wanted to know Bela's story anyway. He figured this was a win-win situation.

"Alright," he stated. "Then I'm ready. Let's go, Cas."

Castiel tilted his head, examining Dean for a second. Then he nodded and raised his head, looking up. "Hannah!"

Immediately, the angel appeared, scowling a little at her location (no angel liked being in Hell. In fact, no_body _liked being in Hell, full stop) but otherwise looking pretty intimidating. **  
**

Dean raised his eyebrows and couldn't resist giving an appreciative whistle. "Whoa, nice one Cas. This part of your hot chick garrison?" He grinned.

Castiel looked confused. "Hannah is a loyal friend, I have no authority over her. Her voluntary assistance is welcome and I am very grateful."

Hannah gave him a smile in return.

Dean just rolled his eyes. "Oh God, Cas. Never would've pegged you as such a smooth talker..." He shrugged. "Everybody needs someone, I guess."

"The year 1995," Castiel breathed with his eyes closed, then took Hannah's hand and joined their power together. Their eyes glowed golden as the power charged up.

"Do we all hold hands then?" Dean asked sarcastically, and as usual the sarcasm flew above Castiel's head with a _whoosh _and the angel nodded somberly, then held out his hand flatly, as did Hannah.

Dean sighed and complied, and then everything went black.

* * *

He came to sprawled on concrete. A cold wind blew against his face as he picked himself up. Castiel and Hannah were standing next to him; they had landed perfectly. They were both staring at a building in front of them, characteristically serious expressions on their faces. Only Sam could rival a bitchface like that.

Brushing dirt off his jacket, Dean frowned through the gloom ahead of him. It was fog! He knew the weather sucked in England, but damn, everything was so _grey. _

The house was huge, though. No kidding, it was like a mansion. Four cars parked with ample space in the front yard. Four very expensive cars, he noted. Well, there was no surprise there.

The front door was ornate - it even had a brass knocker.

"So, Cas." He turned to the angels. "What's the plan?"

Castiel studied him. "You are here to observe, Dean. We don't need a plan."

"So we're gonna stand here like perverts until we catch a glimpse of some action?" Dean shook his head.

"I don't see the problem," Castiel said honestly, ignoring 'perverts' because he wasn't sure what it meant, but he was sure it was an insult.

"That's cause you can just fast forward through the time, Cas. I'm not gonna sit here and set up base camp for however long this is gonna take!" He looked around. The place seemed pretty far from any motels or bars - from other houses, even. That explained the silence; the lack of the comforting sounds of traffic rumbling down the street.

"Don't you think whoever lives here is gonna be a little curious as to why a bunch of maniacs are standing outside their house staring inside in what, I might add, is the creepiest possible fashion?"

"Nobody will notice us," Hannah answered. "We are hidden to to the naked eye when we wish to be."

Dean glared. "But I'm not!"

Castiel brought his finger to his lips quickly as he caught sight of something Dean couldn't see. "Shh. We arrived at the right time. This is the night on which the deal is made."

Instead of arguing, Dean turned as a sleek-looking cab turned a corner and began to climb the sloping road towards them. "Shit," he whispered. "My British accent ain't that good, you know. I don't even have my FBI badge, although I don't think that would help much here anyway..."

He half-turned to Castiel who looked back solemnly. "Remember, Dean. All paths lead to the same destination. If you try and stop this you will simply twist it further. You are here to learn, not change."_  
_

With that, he and Hannah vanished in sequence.

Dean kneaded his forehead with frustration as the cab slowed near the driveway entrance. "Son of a _bitch_," he muttered and tried to think fast, something which he had yet to get the hang of.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the car roll into the driveway past him and park expertly. Out stepped first an elderly, balding man who opened the back door for a young-looking girl dressed in uniform, clutching a backpack. "Thanks, Creedy," came her thin voice in a posh accent. Dean guessed Creedy was a chauffeur, or butler or something else rich people could afford.

As they left the car he wondered wildly if they'd not even noticed him, but to no avail, as they set off towards him. He sighed.

"Excuse me, sir," came Creedy's voice, "Can I help you?" So polite. If it was Dean, he would've probably yelled 'dude, the hell are you doing on my property?'

The girl strode up beside him. One look at her face confirmed that yes, this was a young Bela Talbot. Her hair was thinner, wirier, her face younger, but the angles of her face were telltale.

Dean put on a frustrated air, which he didn't find difficult at all. He thought briefly of trying out the accent, but that was never going to work, so he spoke normally. "Uhhh... well... yeah, kinda. Well I'm a little lost right now."_  
_

Bela frowned at his accent and her mouth twitched. "What, wrong country?"

He bit back a sordid response. He doubted Bela of what looked like fourteen or fifteen years old could handle their usual banter. "Ha-ha, no. See, I'm here on vacation and I told the cab guy to get me to someplace to stay, but I think I lost my wallet and he ditched me somewhere out here, the freakin'-"

"I see," interrupted Creedy, seeming to sense the expletive before it came and looking down at Dean. "It might have been a good idea to check that you had the means to pay for the journey before you got in."

"Yeah," Dean grinned sheepishly, acting the fool. "You're telling me!" He scratched his head. "Any motels around here?"

"Motels?" Bela shouldered her backpack and eyed him curiously. "There's a Travelodge about two hundred miles out."

Dean's face fell visibly. The chauffeur looked on him with pity. "I would offer you a lift, but I'm on a schedule."

Dean's stomach chose that time to let out an impressive gurgle. He hadn't felt the need to eat in Hell, sadly enough, but now that he was ... well, out of Hell on loan, it was like all that hunger came back into him at once. It cramped up his stomach. Did half-demons need to eat? Apparently so...

The noise made Bela stifle a giggle. She looked up at his defeated expression and then to her chauffeur. "He could stay for dinner, Creedy. He seems positively famished."

Creedy nodded reluctantly. "I suppose it _is _late. You should stay, sir, then I could drop of you off at nine or so?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean managed. "Thanks, man, I appreciate it."

The chauffeur smiled in return, then beckoned to follow him. "I didn't catch your name, mister...?"

Dean followed uncertainly, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. "Dean."

"Mr. Dean?"

"Yep." He cursed silently. The whole 'cover' thing was so much easier when Sam did it, or when the name was written on a piece of card in his wallet. "John Dean."

"Albert Creedy." The man held out a hand and Dean shook it. "I'm a chauffeur for the Richards'."

Bela sneaked a look at this John Dean, who made her want to back away and laugh at the same time. He just looked so disheveled and out-of-place. "That's a funny name," she told him as she fell back into line with his step.

He scowled down at her. "Yeah, and what's your name?"

"Abby."

"Damn, being born without a surname must suck," Dean mumbled.

"Abigail Isabella Richards," she corrected, somewhat proudly. If the Richards were anything, they were respected. There was one perk about her family. "So, you're from the States?"

Dean tried not to puff out his chest too proudly. "Yeah. Lawrence, Kansas."

"I've always wanted to go to America," she said wistfully. "The things I hear about New York..."

He avoided her speculative gaze as they neared the front door. "Yeah, who knows. Maybe one day you'll get to go."

When Creedy offered to hang his leather jacket on the coat rack for him, Dean did his best to politely refuse.

"Whoaaa," Dean muttered as they entered. The house was _huge_. Was that a chandelier? It seemed more like a luxury hotel than a house, what with the _two _staircases. "Even bigger on the inside."

Bela feigned nonchalance, although secretly she was delighted that she'd managed to impress this straight-jawed American with that glint in his eyes. "This is nothing, you should see the summer home."

Creedy gave a brief smile. "I'll put the kettle on, eh? Abby, do sit him down on the sofa. We'll show him good old English hospitality."

Dean allowed her to lead him through a doorway into a rather impressive living room. He plonked himself down on the couch with a contented sigh - if Hell lacked something, it was comfort!

She sat opposite him, fascinated despite herself. Even with his eyes half-closed Dean could feel her curiously examining him. He popped one open. "Bet this doesn't happen too often, huh?"

She shook her head and busied herself into rummaging around in her backpack, flushing slightly. "No, certainly not around here."

He grunted. "You sure you should even be letting me in? I could be a burglar." He smiled faintly. "Bet your mom won't be happy about this."

"Mum won't mind," she replied blithely, as if the answer was more on the lines of _mum won't care_. "Besides, if you're a thief, you're not a very good one." Seemed to finally find what she was pretending to be looking for in her bag, pulling it out - a notebook.

"Homework?" Dean guessed, leaning forward out of his slouch as the sound of a kettle boiling drifted past his ears. He scoffed. "I never did my homework."

"More fool you," she recited as she flipped pages over to the right page and set the book down on the table.

He peered over at it. "The heck is that?" He pointed rather unceremoniously at a drawing on the page.

"Battle of the Somme." She traced the drawing with a finger and preened. "An illustration by me."

"Why did you only draw half a man over there?"

"Other half is stuck in the mud," she pointed out. "Or a trench... whichever way you look at it."

Dean pretended to be interested as footsteps resounded behind him and Creedy approached, a laden tray balanced on his hands. He tried not to look too happy when he spotted a plate full of biscuits as the tray was set down.

Creedy poured the tea into three mugs. It was steaming hot. Dean took one and tried not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of expensive Earl Grey (not that he could tell). _Oh Sammy, if you could see me right now_, he thought with an inward chuckle.

"Milk?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, I like it strong." _It _in this case referring to coffee.

The chauffeur-slash-butler handed a cup to Bela and smiled when he saw the exercise book. "Showing him some World War history, are we?"

"I've got to get this done by tomorrow," Bela shrugged. "Might as well start now."

"Don't suppose John here could help you?" Creedy glanced over at Dean, who remembered quickly he was supposed to be John. "You look like you've seen some action. Military?"

"My Dad was a marine," Dean admitted, cradling his tea. "I served some time as well." Then, "... is it that obvious?"

"It's the scars," the man elaborated. "You could cover them with make-up, but something tells me you're not the type."

Dean smiled wryly. "I could pull it off."

He felt compelled to ask some of the usual questions he asked when he was on a case. In fact, he was here to learn more about Bela's life, so it was as good of an idea as any. "So ... is this family related to the Queen?"

Bela almost choked over a sip of tea and put the cup down, coloring slightly. "Not quite!"

"You seem kinda rich. I dunno."

"I think that's owed to the success of the Richards' family business," Creedy affirmed. "Wallace Richards is a smart man and he's worked hard to get here."

Dean resisted the urge to say _what about Gromit?_ and nodded. "Seems that way." He reached over for a chocolate biscuit. "Never seen cookies like these before," he commented as he took a bite, then closed his eyes in relish. "Now I know what I've been missing my whole life!"

Bela watched him eat it as she blew into her mug. "It's a bourbon cream."

"Bourbon?" Dean mumbled through a mouthful. "No wonder it tastes so good!" He and Creedy shared a knowing look at Bela's confusion.

He reached for another two biscuits. "So what's the family business?"

"Stocks," Bela responded somewhat dismally. "Daddy's a stockbroker."

"Sounds like you don't want to go the same way."

"I want to be an archaeologist," Bela asserted dreamily. "And not just because of Indiana Jones."

Dean couldn't hold back a grin. "I suppose you'd enjoy procuring obscure objects."

Light shone in her eyes. "I hear there are talismans and artifacts and _libraries _of dusty old tomes just waiting to be discovered." She looked down at her book crossly. "Although when I chose History I was rather hoping for more ancient history rather than World War One..."

Dean swallowed some more tea. "Times like these are when it helps to have a genius younger brother to do your work for you."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I think Abby's pretty lucky to be an only child." Creedy smiled genially. "I grew up in a family of four. We drove each other mad."

"Oh don't get me wrong, me and little Sammy fight all the time," Dean said quickly, "but we got each other's backs. That's what matters."

Bela was quiet, head bowed down at her book. She wondered what it might be like to have someone watch her back and protect her like that.

An hour passed like this - Dean chatting with the chauffeur, Bela concentrating on her work and tea being drunk all round. She felt oddly at peace as she did her homework. Today was turning out to be a good day. She had company - strange company, but interesting company nevertheless. Usually she had the house to herself (and Creedy) after school, and the loneliness could get crushing.

What's more, today her father was working a late shift and wouldn't be back until past midnight, by which time she would be asleep. As for her stepmother, well she lived more like little Abby didn't even exist, and wouldn't be back until ten anyway.

Things were looking up!

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**Reviews are much appreciated (its been a while since I've had one :P)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi! Sorry it's been so long, but this chapter was rather difficult to write for obvious reasons. **

**This chapter _will _have implied child sexual abuse towards the end. I made it as subtle and as I could, but if the implication is potentially triggering to you I'm marking the part that you can skip with two bolded asterisks (one at the start of the paragraph and one at the end). It isn't crass or anything, but I just want to be sure. :)**

* * *

"Damn," Dean exclaimed as he scraped the last bit of meat pie off the plate. "That was amazing."

Bela was smiling as she ate, considerably slower than him. "What, you've never had shepherd's pie before?"

He shrugged. "I don't really do domestic. It's probably been years since I've had a home-cooked meal to be honest."

Her face screwed up as one might upon tasting a bitter lemon. "What do you do then, eat at restaurants and fast-food outlets all the time? That must be horrible."

"It's really not so bad," he grinned. "Thanks for the grub, Creedy."

The sound of the clock striking nine surprised Dean. Had it really been three hours already?

The time had flown, surprisingly. He'd scoffed at the homework, eaten about ten of the chocolate-layer biscuits and drunk the tea which was, loathe as he was to admit it, not all that bad. God, Sammy would have a field day if he knew that. Tea was not a Dean Winchester drink.

He'd asked Creedy for a pack of cards and then tried to teach Bela - Abby - how to play poker. She caught on fast and managed to hoodwink him with an impressive poker face that made him grumble 'wow, how typical' (at which she'd frowned and said 'what?' and he'd shaken his head and said 'oh, nothing'). They wagered in Bourbon biscuits.

The more time he spent, the more mystified he got. How did this innocent girl with a bright future and her own friggin' personal butler turn into Bela Talbot? He couldn't exactly ask 'hey, Abby, why'd you kill your parents?' or 'you seen a demon around lately?'. It just didn't make sense. Neither could he kick the pity he was feeling for her because every now and then he would remember that the person in front of him was going to spend five hundred years in Hell, and it was sad really because she mentioned her ambitions and dreams and it was just like, _ha, nope, not gonna happen_.

"I guess it's time then," he said at length. The whole theory of Bela would have to wait til the next day, it looked like. That contradicted what Cas had said about this being _the night_, but for whatever reason the angel must've gotten the date mixed up because it was probably bedtime for Bela soon enough and he didn't see anything suspicious.

Creedy nodded at him and stood up from his seat. "I'll drop you off then."

Bela, who was still eating, looked slightly disappointed but, to her credit, hid it well. If Dean didn't know her sneaky expressions like he did, he would have missed it. As it was, he didn't, and felt the strangest warmth inside his chest.

"Bye," she said nonchalantly, concentrating on her food. Creedy had gone to fetch Dean's coat which, eventually, Dean had given in to letting go of (if just temporarily).

"You're a good kid, you know," Dean found himself saying. "And you got a life ahead of you. Just, uhh, remember that, okay?" He winced at how awkward that sounded, and hurriedly turned away and strode towards the doorway to avoid her perplexed look. "Don't throw it away," he finished as he heard the sound of a car in the distance, guessing Creedy had already started up. "Thanks for the hospitality. See you around."

The chauffeur had not, in fact, started the car yet and was waiting at the door for Dean. He handed over the coat which Dean put on with the slightest sigh of pleasure, and opened the door.

The mystery of the car engine was solved as a Mercedes rolled slowly into the driveway and parked inside. Creedy looked just as surprised as Dean. "He's supposed to be working late tonight," the old man murmured under his breath._  
_

Mr. Richards had the lean figure of a man who calculated everything in his life. His teeth were white - too white - and his hair slicked into a forced parting that looked neat but unnatural. He approached Dean and Creedy looking slightly bemused.

"Evening Creedy," he nodded. "Who's this?"

Creedy looked at Dean. "He was stranded on the road outside here a couple of hours ago, sir. Abigail and I decided it would be rude to send him packing, especially since someone stole his wallet."

"Name's John," Dean supplied with an uneasy smile.

Wallace returned the smile, although it never reached his eyes, and extended a hand. "Wallace Richards."

Dean shook it. "I was just leaving, actually. Don't wanna be any more trouble." He figured being polite was the way to go here.

A nod from the stockbroker which carried along with it the coldest look one could give while still acting subtle. Dean's spidey sense started to tingle.

Creedy pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. "I'm just going to drop him off at the nearest hotel."

"Oh, no need," Wallace said smoothly. "It's a lovely night, I'm sure the walk will be refreshing."

"Of course, sir," the butler conceded.

Dean knew instinctively that to argue would be both stupid and pointless, so he merely shrugged. "Guess I'll get going then. Thanks for everything," he said to assure Creedy he didn't mind. "It's been a great evening."

Fake smiles all around, and then Dean was leaving the driveway as Creedy and Mr. Richards returned to the house. Well, he wasn't leaving - he was just pretending to be leaving. Something was definitely off here and Dean was willing to bet it was something to do with Wallace Richards.

* * *

He was peering through the window when a hand touched him on the shoulder. He jumped and cursed as he turned around to a sincere expression on Castiel's face. "Jesus, dude."

The angel surprised him by smiling. "What would you like to know about Jesus?"

"It's an expression, Cas."

The smile faded. "Have you learned yet? Hannah is anxious to leave. There are matters she needs to attend to in Heaven."

"You didn't exactly give me long to think of a cover story," Dean huffed. "But anyway, everything's fine except for Wallace over there who kinda gives me the creeps. So just like any other case I'm gonna investigate." It really did feel like a case, too, apart from the jarring absence of Sam watching his back.

Castiel nodded. "I can aid you in your investigation."

"Nuh-uh," Dean said quickly. "You just stay right here. I don't need you in my way."

Ignoring Cas' slightly affronted expression, Dean crouched on the balls of his feet and crept along the wall of the mansion, which felt like it went on forever. He needed to find a way inside that wasn't as obvious as the front door. He doubted he would have much difficulty sneaking around the place as it was so huge, and he hadn't seen any servants or anything like he'd expected, so there were probably just the three people in the house at the moment.

He went past a number of locked windows before he found one that didn't protest at his touch and swung inwards. Bingo!

Legs first, he ducked through the window and onto a carpeted floor which muffled his landing. Man, everything about this house was ornate. He gave the room a quick check to make sure he hadn't accidentally dropped in somewhere in plain view of everyone. Judging by all the books, he was in a study.

Once again, he wasn't too sure what he was doing. Dean was very much a _do first, think after _kind of person and it served him well considering his profession. Now that he was inside the house, it occurred to him that he didn't even know what he was supposed to be looking for, but neither did it irk him. He took things in his stride.

A peek from the doorway confirmed that he wasn't about to get spotted. He could hear the murmur of voices down the hall. That might be a good place to start.

Hugging the shadows of the wall, he slunk down the corridor, nearing the living room as the voices grew louder.

"Sir, it might be a good idea to sit down, I'll make you some tea-"

The angry voice of Mr. Richards cut the butler off. "Did I ask for tea? I told you to get out. Your services aren't required anymore."

"But-"

"I've had a shitty day, Al. Like, a _really _shitty day, so don't test my patience. Pack your stuff and get out, because I've decided we don't need a butler anymore, and that is that. I want you gone by tomorrow morning."

An uncomfortable silence descended, followed by a meek "Yes, sir," from Creedy.

Dean winced. That was probably his fault somehow. _Sorry, bud._

If anything though, this reeked of dysfunctional. At least for tonight. As Creedy went, morosely, to pack his things, Dean watched Mr. Richards. The man was giving him weird vibes all over. He'd taken off his suit jacket and now stood, fists clenched, with his tie still done up. Clearly he was pissed about something. What Dean didn't know was that Wallace had taken a risky gamble with a company that had unfortunately not paid off, and as a result he was in a particularly vile mood. _  
_

Abruptly, Wallace turned on his heel and strode briskly through into Dean's corridor, who managed to duck into a shadow just in time. He caught the all-too-familiar afterscent of alcohol in the air. _Oh boy. _

Dean followed from a safe distance behind. Pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. He could sense something odd about this night - events seemed to be culminating to something. Guess Cas was turning out to be right after all.

It didn't take a genius to see what was wrong.

Just past another living room was the dining room. Dean chose to slip silently into the living room while Wallace entered the dining room, where Bela was still eating.

"How was school?"

Bela's response was so quiet Dean almost didn't catch it. "Fine."

"Anything new?"

"Not really."

"Hm," Wallace mused. He seemed to have gotten a grip on his temper from whatever had happened at work. "I hear you and Creedy had a guest today."

Almost like she'd rehearsed the reply, she spoke quickly. "It was some poor tourist. His cabbie ditched him on our street because someone stole his wallet."

Her voice was so much meeker now. It had lost the excited edge of a fifteen-year old and had taken on the dull sheen of someone who had seen a lot more and knew to stay quiet and not to provoke.

"I see," he replied. "Well, I hope he didn't cause us any trouble."

Then, "come on now, Abby. You finished eating long ago, it's time for bed now."

"I'm still hungry," Bela protested in a voice so quiet Dean had to strain his ears to hear it.

"Well, it's almost ten o'clock so it's time for bed." There was a clattering sound which Dean guessed was the plates being put away. "Go on. I'll be up to tuck you in in a minute."

Dean hid himself quickly as Bela exited the dining room and trudged over to the stairs. Her face was angled away but she didn't look annoyed, or cross, like a child might if told to go to bed early - rather, she simply appeared defeated - resigned, even. It was in her manner, the way each footstep was now heavy instead of light and carefree as it had been before.

Wallace followed not long after. Dean stayed put for a couple of minutes, crouched, heart thumping like it did on hunts when he felt in anticipation of something - even though he wasn't too sure _what_. It didn't seem like anything was going to happen and he doubted following them upstairs would be a good idea.

But then again, Dean wasn't one to come all this way and then leave a job half done.

When he heard the bedroom door open, then a moment later, close, he ducked out of the room and went for the staircase. Years of ghostbusting still-inhabited houses had taught Dean how to silently walk up stairs, so his ascent was noiseless - rather like a ghost itself. It helped that they were caked in embroidered carpet.

Unfortunately, he nearly gave the game away when he reached the top and poked his head around a corridor to the sight of two of his favourite angels staring solemnly at a door in front of them. He heaved a sigh, bit back the urge to demand what they were doing (because he really should have gotten used to this sort of thing by now) and focused on the task at hand, which was of course to see what was behind that very door.

*****Castiel gave him a sad look as Dean approached them. As Dean got closer, he realised why - the faintest of sobs could be heard through the doorframe. Pathetic sobs punctuated with sniffs and cutt-offs and those high-pitched hiccups that could soften even the hardest man's heart. Also audible was a lower, deeper sigh. These were the sorts of sounds Dean was certain you did _not _hear from a child being 'tucked in' to bed.*****

Now, Dean Winchester lived by his instincts. One of these instincts was his 'protector' impulse, the one that led him to, again and again, put his own life on the line for innocent people - the same one that led to his eventual self-condemnation for his little brother's life - the same one that kept him awake at night with guilt for the people who'd died for _him - _his father, Jo, Bobby...

Naturally, hearing a child in distress sent this instinct into overdrive. Dean forgot about staying hidden, forgot about demons, forgot about 'all paths lead to the same destination'. He simply stepped back and launched his foot at the door, fully intending to break it down and then go in and _stop_ whatever was going on in there with the sort of righteous fury he wouldn't admit he had a tendency to.

As it was, his foot fell short, impeded by an invisible barrier. Next to him Cas' expression grew more sombre.

"Cas," he said angrily. "Let me go!"

Try as he might, he couldn't get past. Worse, he could hear screaming now which made him even more desperate to get inside. He opened his mouth to shout something - perhaps get Wallace's attention somehow - but his vocal cords constricted and no sound came out.

Beside him Cas eyed the door with a frown. "Dean, I told you you cannot interfere. It would only make things worse," he stated. "Lilith is inside this house right now. She has just inhabited the body of Albert Creedy. She cannot sense us as of now but if you open that door, she will, and she will do everything in her power to ensure you don't prevent this."

Dean continued to struggle because, as he figured, bring it on Lilith. Killing her would be like Christmas come early - none of this apocalypse shit would even have a _chance _to happen. At the thought of Sammy living a normal life, he tore at the barrier with renewed vigour. This time, something powerful stirred in him. He could feel the First Blade burning a hole in his jacket. His arm started to sear and he felt the barrier give way slightly.

Hannah, who was holding up the barrier beside Castiel, shot him a worried look. "We should go, _now,_" she muttered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Cas turn to her and then nod once. Then he felt like he was being engulfed in burning-bright light that seared his eyes and drove all thoughts from his head until he had no choice but to fall unconscious.

The last thing he felt was the hollow bitterness of failure in the back of his throat.

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**Thanks for reading and for all the support. Next chapter... Dean returns to the land of the living and makes another unsettling discovery!**


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